Mr. Aristocrat
"'Shepherd, what's love? I pray thee tell.'
'It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is perhaps that sauncing bell
That tolls us all to heaven or hell,
And this is love as I heard tell.'"
—Sir Walter Raleigh.
The Australian Bush is pre-eminently a charnel-house of human lives, and therefore of the affections. Innumerable histories, neatly folded up and hidden away in the by-places of the great island continent, labelled Not wanted till the Judgment Day, will prove this indisputably. When Gabriel's trump shall call the sleepers from their resting-places in the shadows of the frowning mountains, in the long, grey gullies, and from the deserts and hopeless open plains, Australia's Bush contingent will be among the saddest and most miserable to face the Judgment Throne. "Mr. Aristocrat" will be there, and his case alone will be worth hearing.
At the time I'm going to tell you about we were pushing out to new country at the head of the Flinders River, in Northern Queensland, and when three camps this side of our destination, horses and men knocked up, things began to look the very reverse of cheering. Night was coming on; the cold wind murmured among the rocks, and the high cane-grass bowed its head before it, whispering, "Weep, weep, weep." Then the full moon soared over the gaunt shoulders of the hills that peaked up into the lonely sky, and as she rose, we saw in front of us the lights of Mintabera Head Station.
To come across a dwelling in such a wilderness was a stroke of good fortune we did not expect. We rode up, made ourselves and our errand known, and were hospitably received. The manager, who came out to greet us, was a middle-aged man, very tall and broad-shouldered. He was also very quiet and reserved, which may or may not have been because he had been cut off from the doubtful advantages of civilization for so many years. He took me into the house and set his best before me. After dinner we lit our pipes, and sat talking in the verandah until about nine o'clock, when I craved permission to retire. My host accompanied me to my room, and before saying "good-night," surprised me by inquiring if I was to be easily frightened. Asking "By what?" he replied, "By anything; by noises you might hear, or things you might see."
On my assuring him that I thought my nerves were equal to a considerable strain, he left me to puzzle it out alone.
I was more mystified than I cared to own, and to tell the honest truth, I crawled into bed, half wishing that, after all, we had camped in the gully, as had been at first proposed. But, as nothing out of the common occurred for fully half an hour, I rolled over, and was soon in the land of dreams.
It must have been about midnight when I was suddenly awakened and brought up to a sitting posture by a scream, so terrible, so unearthly, that I could compare it to nothing I had ever heard before. Three times it rang out shrill and distinct upon the still night-air, and at each repetition my heart thumped with a new violence against my ribs, and the perspiration rolled in streams down my face. Then came the words (it was certainly a woman's voice), "They're coming! they're coming! Will nobody save me?" Leaping out of bed, I huddled on my clothes, seized a revolver, and rushed across the verandah in the direction whence I thought the sound proceeded.
It was a glorious night, and the moon shone full and clear into the room where we had dined; but, before I could look in and satisfy my curiosity, my arm was seized from behind, and turning, I confronted the manager.